PATTERNS 2021 EDITION - St. Clair County Community College
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PAT TE R N S
Dr. Nicholas J. DeGrazia, Chair
Dr. Karen L. Niver, Vice-Chair
PATTERNS
Randall S. Fernandez
John S. Lusk
Marcia A. Robbins
Dr. Fred B. Roberts
Robert E. Tansky
63
• 2021 EDITION •
ESSENTIAL
WORK
While we were trapped in the social isolation
of Covid-19, with our six-foot distancing
and our quarantines and our masks, we lost
touch. Figuratively, yes, but even literally.
According to the National Institutes of
Health, study after study across the country
showed that rates of anxiety and depression
skyrocketed, much of it the result of a lack of
hope and an abundance of loneliness.
While we've begun to socialize once
again, these pages ofer another way to
break through the ice-jam of isolation: the
arts. Human beings have looked to the
arts through the ages to find beauty and
connection. Whether it's the dagger ending
of Makenna Joppisch's poem "Living Room
Windows" or the bonds of love shown in her
short story "Brother," you will find beauty and
connection. Yet leafing through these pages
can seem new, too — when was the last
time we read or looked at something that did
not involve swiping, or game controllers, or
clicking an icon?
In a roundabout way, then, the pandemic
has taught us the same lesson that art has
always given us: beauty is not just “nice,” it’s
necessary, and human connection is not“extra”;
it’s essential. Thus, the work that appears in
the pages that follow is essential work, and the
people who’ve produced it — the artists and
writers — are essential workers.
IN MEMORY OF
DAVID KORFF
1942-2021
SC4 – as well as the entire Blue Water area, stretching
across borders – has lost a pillar of the community with
David R. Korf ’s death this past year. Over a span of forty-
five years, as Chairman of the Art Department at Lambton
College, Sarnia, Ontario and later, Chairman of Visual and
Performing Arts at SC4, David refused to let art languish
in the backwaters of place and time. Instead, he taught
us, and he showed us—in his art and work with countless
arts organizations—again and again, that art is not a frill
or an adornment or a luxury, but is in fact central to living.
In a world in which art is often belittled or reduced to
commerce, David’s life was nothing short of courageous.
Committed to art as essential to one’s education and well-
being, David considered that this arts magazine played
a fundamental role in our eforts to accomplish these
goals. What he liked to emphasize in conversations about
Patterns and the student portfolios, as well as shows, is
that students often produced work that ofered audiences a
glimpse of who they really were. By that he meant that they
produced work that authentically connected to their origins
and original concepts about a subject of their work. David
didn’t necessarily think that one left SC4 a fully developed
artist and ready to move to New York or Paris. What he did
believe is that we find in their works in Patterns and in their
classes the raw, unvarnished work of gifted individuals.
Often, though a student’s work might not be fully realized, it was the Shakespeare festival in Stratford or a concert in
David would marvel at that piece’s authenticity. His Detroit, David was sure to go if he could find a moment to
attentiveness to the value of such genuineness contributed do so. His interests in the arts were wide-ranging, which of
to his massive talent as a teacher. He recognized talent course were at the root of his arts advocacy.
and how to nurture it so that students could maximize
He left his mark on us and our communities. If you’ve
their ability to realize a project and make it art. What
seen sculpture in downtown Port Huron in the past ten
this attentiveness to the whole student did was to create
years, or if you’ve walked through the galleries of the Fine
excitement around the activity of making art and nourished
Arts Building or studied the art in any edition of Patterns
the excitement we all have had while working on Patterns
magazine over the past thirty years, you’ve seen David’s
and preparing for the annual reception.
influence. If you’ve taken a class with David, you’ve felt his
David was just as committed to the literary arts of Patterns. influence. If you’ve listened to The International Symphony,
He was instrumental in advising other coordinators when it you’ve heard his influence. The Port Huron Museum,
came to applying for and writing grants to support inviting the Community Foundation, the Port Huron Art Initiative
visiting writers and artists. His encouragement led to the – there is no part of our community connected to the
Visiting Artists Forum that lasted for 15 years and brought arts that has not, in some way, been touched by David’s
in nationally recognized artists and writers (a Pulitzer Prize presence. It is his lasting gift to us. His work with colleges
winner among them) to work with students and contribute in Sarnia and Port Huron combined with his contributions
to Patterns. David was a teacher and artist of diverse to the community foundation have left an indelible mark on
talents and tastes. When it came to music, the graphic Port Huron.
and plastic arts, literature, dance, or theater, he dedicated
His retirement was an incalculable loss to the college. His
himself to supporting all of them and seeing them flourish
death touches the whole community. These few paragraphs
on our campus. Later, when he left the college, he directed
in this edition of Patterns hardly encompass his range and
his attention to our community and the promotion of public
contributions to our well-being when it comes to the arts.
art throughout the region.
In the coming year, we will have additional opportunities to
As important as David was and is to this magazine, appreciate his contributions. For now, after a tumultuous
his reach extended well beyond Patterns. He nurtured year, let’s pause for a moment and consider all that this
the Thursday noon concert series. He enthusiastically remarkable man has accomplished and be thankful for his
supported the theater arts. He attended to the needs life and works.
to sustain the SC4 band. He played important roles for
Friends of the Arts and the local arts commission in Mount
Clemens—the Anton Art Center. He was a judge for arts
grants in Michigan and elsewhere. If in our region arts and
their programming were on the agenda, David was at that
meeting. He led field trips to great art museums in the area,
particularly the DIA and the Toledo Art Museum. Whether
IN MEMORY OF
ALFRED GAY
1953 –2020
Alfred taught at St. Clair County Community College in the
Visual and Performing Arts for over ten years, and held a
reputation of respect and admiration from the students and
colleagues that worked with him. He inspired his students
with his compassion, love of art, life experiences, and with
his bi-annual field trips to the Detroit Institute of Arts, Flint
Institute of Arts, and Toledo Art Museum.
Alfred specialized in printmaking, drawing and painting.
His work can be described as stylistically abstract, with
energetic brushstrokes and high-contrast colors.
Born in Osnabrueck Germany, Alfred immigrated to
California, and settled in Seattle as a boy. He received
his Bachelor and Master of Fine Arts degrees from the
University of Washington in Seattle, and took additional
courses at the Goethe-Institut in Germany. Shortly after
moving to Michigan, Alfred began teaching at SC4,
instructing in studio art, art history, and German. Alfred was
a committed Christian and long-time elder at Faith Lutheran
Church in Port Huron.
Alfred is survived by his wife Kathy Gay—to whom he was
married for nearly forty-five years—his children Alex (Susie)
Gay and Helen (Josh) Zoerhof, mother Anne Gay, and an
extended family in the United States, and in Germany.
GENEROUS
THANK CONTRIBUTORS
YOU
The following people have contributed to help
make Patterns a celebrated event each year.
PATTERNS COMMITTEE
Sarah Flatter
Jim Frank
Gary Schmitz
SHORT FICTION JUDGES
Chris Hilton
Robert Kroll
FINANCIAL SUPPORT
St. Clair County Community College
SC4 Friends of the Arts
FRIENDS OF THE ARTS DONORS:
Sharon Adams
Crystall Banks
Bonnie Barrett
Arthur Crawford
Thank you to all of our judges, donors, and
POETRY JUDGES Aleta Day
committee members. A special thank you Sarah Flatter
Elizabeth Jacoby
to the SC4 Friends of the Arts; a committed Suzanne O’Brien Mary Hawtin
group of businesses, community members Katherine Holth
ESSAY JUDGES Kirkendall Family
and SC4 faculty and staf that support the
David Korf
arts at SC4, including music, theatre, creative Belinda Bernard
Kirk & Sheryl Kramer
Susan Plachta
writing and visual arts. Kendra Lake
Karen Langolf
VISUAL ARTS JUDGE
C. & B. Mathews
Sarah Flatter Mary McQuiston
Joan Morrison
GRAPHIC DESIGNER Gail Nawrock
Doug Penrod Mary & Dennis Nicholson
Nancy Nyitray
CLERICAL ASSISTANTS Estate of Mary Jane O'Toole
Kim Kelley Florence Oppliger
Chrystal Lilly Elizabeth & Milton Ploghoft
Theodore Parkhurst Port Huron Musicale
Cynthia Rourke
Ann Schlittz
D. & D. Schwartz
Debbie Sta Cruz
AWARDS OF DISTINCTION
17 Eleanor Mathews Award: Makenna Joppich
18 Patrick Bourke Award: Brandi Schmitz
POETRY
23 Blanche Redman Award: Lindsey Sobkowski
"Rainy Day Villanelle"
AWARD
24 Second Place: Makenna Joppich
"Living Room Windows"
25 Third Place: Patricia Jo Bowman
WINNERS
"Eli"
ESSAY
38 Kathleen Nickerson Award: Thomas Short
"A Father’s Love: Rejection from the Beloved"
45 Second Place: Samantha Kicinski
"Another Day at the Office"
49 Third Place: Rebekah Delmedico
"Advertisements and Persuasion: Manipulating
our Wants into Needs"
SHORT STORY
57 Richard Colwell Award: Emily Kean
"Pareidolia"
71 Second Place: Natalya Reid
"She Strings the Beads to Make a Brighter Day"
79 Third Place: Makenna Joppich
"Brother"
VISUAL ART
99 First Place: Skylar Aleman
"New View", Digital Media
100 Second Place: Doug Penrod
"Strange Medicine", Digital Media
102 Third Place: Heather Brassfield
"Snowy Dirt Road", Digital Media
LITERARY SELECTIONS OF MERIT
27 Zachary Kerhoulas
"Autumn Leaves," Poetry
29 Avery Westbrook
"Espresso Express," Poetry
31 Makenna Joppich
"Marred Sky," Poetry
33 William Patterson
"Morning Coffee," Poetry
SELECTIONS OF 35 Stacy Nichols
"Dinner Bell," Poetry
MERIT
91 Jacqueline Wahl
"The Ruby-Eyed Man," Short Story
VISUAL ART SELECTIONS OF MERIT
26 Heather Brassfield
"Cades Cove Barn," Photography
28 Vera Klimovich
"Daydreamer," Digital Media
32 Hannah Buckley
"Morning at 40th Street Pond," Photography
34 Miranda Benner
"Wagon Wheel," Photography
47 Doug Penrod
"Marine City Throw Back," Photography
78 Alicia Fortuna
"Face off," Photography
90 Brandi Schmitz
"Lucy in the Sky," Digital Media
ELEANOR
MATHEWS & PATRICK
BOURKE BRANDI SCHMITZ
AWARDS
PATRICK BOURKE AWARD
The Patrick Bourke Award honors an art or design student
who has made a commitment to pursue an advanced
degree in one of the visual arts disciplines and has been
an advocate and emissary for art at St. Clair County
Community College. This year we honor Brandi Schmitz.
Each year five special awards are given,
named for past faculty members who made Brandi is a prospective 2022 graduate seeking her
extraordinary contributions to the arts and Graphic Design Associate Degree, with plans to continue
literature on campus and to Patterns in her studies in Graphic Design at Wayne State University.
particular. The Patrick Bourke and Eleanor
Brandi’s work is thoughtful, and requires the viewer to
Mathews Awards are awards of distinction question meaning. She sees and understands visual
that recognize students who have done ideas in a seemingly natural and instictive way. She is
exceptional work overall in art and literature. also proactive, and serious in her commitment to her
professional and educational goals. This includes applying
The Blanche Redman, Richard Colwell and
for scholarships, competitions, freelance work, and more,
Kathleen Nickerson Awards are given for the
while still managing a bevy of personal responsibilities.
highest quality submissions for each year in She does all of this, yet manages to be incredibly
poetry, fiction and essay writing, respectively. successful with her coursework. Her drive, commitment
to the arts, and exceptional talent makes her worthy of
this highly competitive award of distinction in the field of
fine and applied arts. It is with pleasure that we honor her
excellence at SC4.
17Makenna has stated that writing, “revisioning,” revising, and
MAKENNA JOPPICH
finally proofing are all steps that have given her confidence
in her works and to embark on new projects. Soon, she
hopes to transfer and continue her writing while at a
university. To conclude, we should add that as Makenna
ELEANOR MATHEWS AWARD continues to write and contribute to the arts, we ought to
remember her name and look forward to what she has to
share with us.
Last year, we introduced the 62nd edition with a note that
“art is hard work.” A popular conception is that art is for
those who are naturally talented. Certainly, talent matters
as it does in all human activities. However, the success of
our pursuits is not merely the product of talent but also
arises from hard work. Makenna Joppich, this year’s Eleanor
Mathews Award winner, displays that rare combination of
talent and a productive work ethic.
Makenna exemplifies the dedication to art that we hope our
writers and artists strive for. In the 62nd and 63rd editions
of Patterns, Makenna worked diligently and quickly with
the editors for fiction and poetry to prepare her pieces for
publication. Often, she would reply with revisions the day
she would get a response from us. Her attentiveness to
detail, to line, to stanza and paragraph is exceptional.
Her stories and poems touch on family matters as well as
subjects that deal with larger, national themes. Her range
is remarkable. Makenna’s political and historical interests
are clear in poems such as “Marred Sky” and “Living Room
Windows.” She addresses social concerns related to the
justices and injustices of small town life in her stories
“Remember the Name” and “Brother.” Her ability to connect
the personal to contemporary social issues is a welcome
surprise.
18 19POETRY SELECTIONS
1 BLANCHE REDMAN AWARD
RAINY DAY VILLANELLE
FIRST Lindsey Sobkowski
PLACE
POETRY
Droplets drape themselves along the roof,
the rusted gutter being their captor.
Drowsiness comforted, pitter patter.
A book lies on the worn rug, not in use
by loose fingers. Paper creased mid chapter.
Droplets drape themselves along the roof.
Wind bends wood frames, creating creaks and croons
Yet sleep is too great, the noise does not factor.
Drowsiness comforted, pitter patter.
As her chamomile’s warmth is reduced,
the knits and fleece give her more soon after.
Droplets drape themselves along the roof,
into crooks and crannies closer they move.
Drops trickle down to envelope, wrap her.
Drowsiness comforted, pitter patter.
The drops turn into puddles, pools soon after.
Blustering frigid wind overtakes, still air replaced.
Droplets draped themselves along the roof,
drowsiness comforted, pitter patter,
23SECOND
2 THIR D
3
PLACE PLACE
POETRY POETRY
LIVING ROOM WINDOWS ELI
Makenna Joppich Patricia Jo Bowman
They climb out of the rising tide Imagination takes flight, boyhood the aviator.
As the rain lashed down Precarious thoughts stream from a mouth
While they crossed the crimson sand missing one front tooth.
With the hope of the world He sprints away faster than a roller coaster.
Weighing heavy on their shoulders A piece of paper and marker calm the whirlwind
A constellation of smoke spread while colorful dreams are sketched.
And artillery shells erupted Discernment drags behind him like a trailer
Into shrapnel galaxies hitched to abandon. His eyes a lighthouse,
That shook the earth fixed just beneath a tidy brown haircut,
Down to its core guide the storm-tossed weary home again.
Bullets rained from ahead His heart sings deep, a sweet melodic ring
Whizzing past terrified ears varied and vast as sonatas penned for piano.
Boys
Have become heroes
But later
In the drizzling rain
They would become
Thousands of glittering golden stars
That were scattered back home
In living room windows
24 25SELECTION OF MERIT
AUTUMN LEAVES
Zachary Kerhoulas
Fall arrives and the sky is filled
with warm hues of autumn’s leaves.
They take time as the wind
Pushes past the pile each tree leaves.
Settling on the windowsill, they catch her eye.
She sighs, “Honey, can you rake the leaves?”
He tightens his laces and grabs the rake.
Her gaze locks on the door as he leaves.
The door is shut, she clutches her side.
She moans from the bruises he leaves
.
She hurries to the bedroom and packs a bag,
all the while, he rakes the leaves.
She grabs the keys and starts the car.
He won’t catch up to her after she leaves.
SELECTION OF MERIT He hears the car, and shortly, sirens wail
CADES COVE BARN All is lost, that is, all except autumn’s leaves.
Heather Brassfield
27SELECTION OF MERIT
ESPRESSO EXPRESS
Avery Westbrook
I drink black cofee
In the morning.
Strong,
(cafeinate,
contemplate)
Like my feelings for you.
Gazing out the window,
I catch a glimpse of my own reflection
In the smudged glass.
Observing the landscape,
I see growth in everything that breathes.
Still sleepy,
I let my mind wander,
Taking a tour
Through what I’ve felt,
(and what I’m feeling now).
I look around me as the speed increases
(waking up,
slowly, slowly).
I’m quickly remembering
The railway we’ve traveled
To make it here,
Together.
Strapped in tightly,
I have energy for the first time in a while
With no sleep
At all.
Before I look ahead to see
SELECTION OF MERIT What we’ll approach next,
Come aboard.
DAYDREAMER Join me
Vera Klimovich And side by side,
Our still-dreaming eyes reaching towards the future,
We’ll look together.
29SELECTION OF MERIT
MARRED SKY
Makenna Joppich
Smoke marred the sky
And ash fell like rain
People ran in the streets
Some stood
With trauma frozen
On their faces
While their bodies quaked
Others felt anger bubble up inside them
As they desperately awaited answers
While they watched metal tumble down
With a horrific scream
And a
Groan
And to escape the wicked flames
People jumped
From broken windows
Their deaths playing out
While millions watched
People began to weep
As more concrete and steel began to crash down
And smoke and dust
Weaved through the streets
31SELECTION OF MERIT
MORNING COFFEE
William Patterson
Five a.m. sun on the horizon.
Burner on, tea kettle over coil.
Heat rises like the sun’s crimson glow.
Water boils, steam wafts like morning fog.
The kettle screams like an alarm clock.
The French press filled with morning dirt.
Water over grounds, black storm clouds appear.
Bold, smoky scents fill the air.
Strainer in, sifting the grains.
Liquid black as my soul.
The black gold pours,
Like holy water into a stoup.
Dark roast, black and no cream.
I rise like a victor, goblet in hand.
Cofee, the black essence.
Hot steam rises from the cup,
I don my jacket, shoes, and backpack.
Destined for my morning, cofee mug in hand.
SELECTION OF MERIT I close the door; the day has just begun.
MORNING AT
40TH STREET POND
Hannah Buckley
33SELECTION OF MERIT
DINNER BELL
Stacy Nichols
Grandma has a dinner bell
That hangs from a post
Near her garden, but a close reach from her back door.
The bell is old and rusty orange,
Especially around the rim
The paint is chipped of like the polish on my toes.
Little yellow dandelions wreath the base of the post
Vines slither up it, like green snakes
That try to strike the bell.
A sickly rusty eagle proudly sits atop
With his iron wings stretched far
Ready to take flight,
His beak open wide,
As if ready to strike his prey.
The tongue of the bell plays peekaboo
With all those who observe.
Attached to the clapper is an old frayed rope
Covered in fuzz that will make your hand itch.
When rung, the bell makes a beautiful ding
Loud enough to be heard by all around.
When Grandma strikes the bell,
everyone comes running.
Except the startled butterfly
that takes of in a fright.
SELECTION OF MERIT
WAGON WHEEL
Miranda Benner
35ESSAY SELECTIONS
1 KATHLEEN
NICKERSON AWARD
A FATHER’S LOVE:
FIRST REJECTION FROM
PLACE
THE BELOVED
ESSAY Thomas Short
How often was it most of us awakened with a warm roof In this poem, the speaker is looking back at his life, and he
over our head or brushed our teeth with toothpaste that our parents comes to realize that money was a scarcity for his father. I am almost
had bought? How often was it that we showered with water that sure the speaker’s father performed manual labor for too many
seemed free and endless because of our parents? How many times hours with too little pay, hence the “blueblack cold,” on “Sundays
have most of us filled our bellies with food purchased not by us but too.” But still, the speaker’s already exhausted and aching father had
by our parents? Most of us have played with toys that our parents to keep the house warm, even after working his fingers to the bone
had bought and worn clothes that appeared in our dresser drawers performing manual labor throughout the week. Growing up, my
seemingly magically. Most of us have spent countless hours hiding family did not have natural gas, central air conditioning, or, for that
from the snow in a warm house with a plowed driveway. matter, running water half the time. There was an old wood stove
that sat next to every room, or so it seemed. More times than not, I
However, most of us never thought about how hard it is to
would hear my father downstairs banging and cursing as he tried to
keep a home warm, food on the table, or clothes on our family's
get that damned thing lit early in the morning before work to produce
back, let alone folded in dresser drawers. Nevertheless, as children,
heat for his family. It was so cold in the old house where I lived that
we have an obligation to our parents, which oftentimes remains
the water pipes would freeze and burst. I can still remember the time
unfulfilled because by nature we lack the maturity to comprehend
when my cousin, my friend, and I went downstairs to my father’s
the burden we owe our parents. But still, sadly, we often come to
heated waterbed because it was the only part of the house that was
realize what our parents sacrificed to raise us, and we want to thank
not frozen by the “blueblack cold.” And there, we all three lay under
them. However, more times than not, it is too late to do so. This
the covers shivering for what felt like an ice age. Yet somehow my
is the suggestion of a beautifully written poem by author Robert
father was able to rise before his family every day in the “blueblack
Hayden called “Those Winter Sundays.” We could not possibly know
cold,” readying us for the day to come. Like my own father, the
at such a young age how bittersweet love is; it is not until we have
speaker’s father was probably struggling to make ends meet, as the
grown and experienced love’s pains and pleasures that we can truly
house where he grew up was hard to maintain. However, as a child,
understand and appreciate love.
38 39it seemed natural for one to hold a hand out screaming for money had transitioned in my mind from a curse to an essential blessing
that they did not know how to earn, nor did they comprehend how because even though that stove was hard work, that blissful stove
hard cash was to make because they could not possibly understand provided for my family. I never thanked my father because much
the ramifications of what their parents endured every day. And they like the child in the poem, I could not fathom what my father was
cannot possibly be mature enough to fathom the despair until they sacrificing to raise his family or how many hours he was working
have grown and faced such disparities themselves. Eventually, my between that old house and his job to feed us; as a child, I would not
father moved in with my aunt, and he passed his house down to even try to.
me. And just as the boy in the poem could not realize the nature of
The speaker felt deep regret for not understanding what
his father’s love, I could not realize why my father would rather be
his father had sacrificed. The now-grown boy feels remorse for how
at work or do work around that old house than spend time with his
he had spoken to his father in the past as he seems to be almost
son—that is, until I had to do that work myself.
crying out loud the words, “What did I know, what did I know.”
The speaker’s father wanted to protect the boy from the Despite what his father had done for him, such as driving out the
harsh realities of nature and also the nature of the sometimes harsh cold, the boy still disrespected and spoke “indiferently” to his father.
world itself as the father did not ask the boy to get out of bed or help The speaker also referred to the “angers” as the home’s internal
to gather wood or clean the stove and take out the old ashes from problems and not just the less-than-perfect house itself. Once my
the last fire. The father would instead shout for the boy to rise after family home had warmed, everyone would mosey down to the fire
the house had started to warm. And of course, the boy would slowly that my father had built, and my father would willingly push into the
rise and dress because he was not old enough to know better. I put background. At least, that is what my mind perceived. He was onto
a new furnace in that old house thinking that it would eliminate my the next project without a single thank you. At this point, I heard
father’s senseless struggles but left the old wood stove in its place. my mother shouting at my father, “The fucking water isn’t working
One morning I awoke with what felt like frostbite because the furnace again Charlie.” My father would respond without hesitation, “Maybe
decided not to work, as did many other things in that old house. I because ain’t nobody kept the fucking fire lit last night while I was
immediately went to that old stove that I hated ever so much, and I at work, Marsha. I’m only one mother-fucker, you know.” As a boy,
struggled and struggled to get that damned thing lit, while kicking the severity of my father’s predicaments while raising my family
the new furnace that I had paid good money to purchase. Then, as I eluded me. Yet, as I grow, I start to understand what my father did
sat distraught with fire finally ablaze, my family came downstairs and go through, and I am thankful.
huddled by that fire I had built, and they started soaking in its flare; it
Because of the “angers” in my family home, I had become a
was only then that I truly understood that old stove. The boy could not
wild child at school and at home. I said things to my father, such as
possibly understand why the house was not always warm or what the
“You’re not my dad,” and “I’m not your son anyways, so who gives a
big hurry was to get out of bed early because the boy did not have a
shit.” I knew this would hurt my father; I was not mature enough as
family to feed or rent to pay. The speaker, now as an adult, seems to
a child to understand how deeply my words could hurt my father,
realize that his father had polished his good shoes, warmed the house
nor did I care, because I was merely a boy as was the speaker. The
before calling to him, and worked until his fingers were cracked,
speaker feels remorse because he now feels obligated to his father,
all so the boy would not have to face the “blueblack cold” because
but it is too little, too late. The speaker probably now works and has
he loved him the only way that he knew how. That damned stove
a family of his own that he must tend to.
40 41Because the child in the speaker has grown, he now
appreciates his father, and he is starting to fathom the “lonely
ofices” that his father had endured while raising him. The speaker
now grasps the fact that his children will also not be able decipher
between a father’s “chronic angers” and a father’s undying love. The
speaker has now accepted “love’s austere and lonely ofices.” At
such an immature age as the boy was at the beginning of the poem,
it is almost impossible to know parenting dificulties and the sacrifice
made to be a family. The speaker realizes being a loving parent is not
luxurious and can be quite unpleasant at times, but a father’s love
never dies. Unfortunately, our parents do perish, and more often than
not, we do not tell them how we feel about them because it is too
late to do so as it was with the speaker.
Most parents have spent half of their existence to provide
their families with food and shelter, along with other things, and
for this, we have an obligation. My father has gotten up too in the
“blueblack cold” many times so that my family was warm and would
not sufer. He would make “banked fires blaze” for us from the love
in his heart, as he was usually going to work. My father’s hands were
“cracked” and covered with work. My father was a great man who
did his absolute best to provide for his family, once walking from Port
Huron, Michigan, to New Haven, Michigan, because he was renting
out that old house and my father had had some food in a freezer
there. Fortunately, I can fulfill my obligation to my father by instilling
his heart and his values into my children, and when my father leaves
this earth, his life will have been exemplary. So, I say what the author
never had the chance to say. “I love you father. I will sacrifice for my
children as you have done for yours. I will do this for you, I will do
this for your grandchildren, and I pray that they will do this for theirs.
I will do this so that, you father, you, and your honorable heritage will
Works Cited
live eternal life in our hearts, never perishing.”
Hayden, Robert. “Those Winter Sundays.” Arguing about Literature,
edited by John Schlib and John Cliford, Bedford St. Martin’s, 2014,
pp. 318-19.
42 432ANOTHER DAY
SECOND IN THE OFFICE
PLACE Samantha Kicinski
ESSAY
Lub-dub. The call light flashes at me in white and orange.
I’ve answered her call light what seems like a hundred times today.
Lub-dub. Everything feels normal, everything’s fine, I think when I
open her curtain. Okay, she’s on the floor. Lub-dub. “What are you
doing, Mary?” I ask her. I walk towards her to shut of her call light.
Lub-dub. Squish. What the hell did I just step in?
Lub-dub. I look down and my shoes are stained red. Why are
my shoes red? Everything comes into focus and hits me. Lub-dub.
She’s laying in a pool of blood. I’m standing in a pool of her blood.
Lub-dub. “Oh my god!” I scream loud enough for the whole building
to hear. “Nicole!” I scream the nurse’s name. “Call the supervisor and
EMS! She’s on the floor in a pool of blood!” Lub-dub. “Mary, can you
hear me?!” I ask her as I begin assessing her. Don’t panic, Sam. Keep
calm. You’ve done hundreds of simulations for these. This is your time
to shine.
The nurse rushes in with three more people behind her:
another nurse and two more aides that somehow she was able
to find within the span of about thirty seconds. What? We had
two more aides? Lub-dub. Oh no. I’m panicking. No number of
simulations can ever prepare you for this. “Did you hit your head,
Mary?” I say as blood is gushing from a wound in her head. Yeah, I’d
say so. I take a closer look around the room. Blood streaks go all the
way up the table legs. Dots of blood are splattered on the walls. It
looks like a scene from Texas Chainsaw.
45Lub-dub. Vital signs are normal. Well, hers. Not mine. She’s
answering the questions. She’s alert, thank God. We’re somehow
able to roll her to get the sling under her. Lub-dub. We use the lift to
get her onto her bed. Lub-dub. EMS is called. For some reason, it’s
nonemergent, even though she clearly has a head injury. Why didn’t
they call for emergent?
Lub-dub. She looks like a horror movie victim, but we start to
clean her up. Lub-dub. My fingers are shaking and tingling from the
shock. I can barely hold the wash cloth as I gently wipe it across her
skin. Lub-dub. My heart is still racing; somehow hers is still beating.
Lub-dub. “Sam, go take a breather. You need it. We’ve got her,” one
of my fellow aides, Becky, says to me. ”You’re gonna be a nurse,
Sam, you need to be able to handle this.”
Lub-dub. I’m out in the hallway, pacing back and forth, just
from the mere shock of finding this woman. EMS loads her into the
gurney. “Why didn’t you guys make this an emergency? She has a
head injury. You’re lucky we have a paramedic with us today,” one of
the EMTs said to us.
Lub-dub. She’s still talking, Sam. She’s still breathing, Sam.
She’s going to be okay. Lub-dub. “Good thing you went in there
when you did. We could’ve lost her.” Lub-dub. “Good job for keeping
your composure in there.” Did I? Did I really? She’s okay. Somehow,
she’s okay.
Lub-dub. You can go through any number of simulations and
clinicals you want. Nothing can ever prepare you for the real thing.
Lub-dub. I sit up in my bed. I can barely catch my breath. Beads of
SELECTION OF MERIT
sweat fall down my back and forehead. I still have nightmares about MARINE CITY THROW BACK
that day. About the pool of blood and how she was looking up at me Doug Penrod
when I walked in. Lub-dub. I still wonder to this day why the call was
nonemergent. To be honest, I have no idea why. Lub-dub. I still go
over everything I did that day. What if I went into her room sooner?
Would she still have fallen? Should I have reacted quicker? I don’t
know; but thank god she’s still alive.
Lub-dub.
46 473 ADVERTISEMENTS
AND PERSUASION:
THIRD MANIPULATING OUR
PLACE WANTS INTO NEEDS
ESSAY Rebekah Delmedico
Although some of us may not always like to admit it, a
typical day can be consumed by wants. It’s not enough to have some
things; we “need” more things. I can’t walk into Target without being
tempted to make a frivolous purchase, and my Amazon cart is filled
with hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuf that I’ve convinced myself I
need. But I do not 'need' any of these items; none of them contribute
to any basic, physiological need. As a middle-class American,
my necessities have been met and now the desire for status and
reputation has my attention. Consumerism feeds of of the desire for
items that give the illusion of status. And behind these temptations
are advertisements, showing the way and creating room in our
brains for more wants. Advertisements have assisted in creating a
nation that is never satisfied by efectively turning wants into needs.
In an essay titled “Everything Now,” Steve McKevitt
discusses consumerism and how it has contributed to a warped
idea of what our “needs” really are (123-129). He further connects
Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and how it outlines the fact that needs
are distinctly fundamental in comparison to wants. Only until the
most basic needs, which McKevitt describes as “air, food, and water”
(125), are met can we work our way up the hierarchy to the less
necessary but more highly regarded levels.
49As middle-class Americans whose most basic of needs have are sitting together at an outdoor cofeeshop and are socializing
been met, we find ourselves looking to the higher levels of Maslow’s amongst themselves. They have all the characteristics of being the
Hierarchy; McKevitt describes these additional human needs as epitome of status. They are pretty, blonde, skinny, and of course, well
“achievement, confidence, respect” (125). When considering those dressed. One of them literally has her nose pointed in the air while
who lack the more essential of needs like food and shelter, these another is glaring straight-ahead at our main lady. The superior and
needs of status and reputation should more accurately be described established image they portray depicts the apex I am trying to reach.
as “wants.” However, businesses have found a way to capitalize
At a face-value examination, this advertisement appears
on this misconception of what our “needs” really are by utilizing
to encourage the purchasing of their product by utilizing positive,
advertisements built to manipulate our thinking into the idea that
confidence-boosting motives. The statement “For Exercising
spending money will provide us our desired self-satisfaction.
Not Socializing” initially promotes a feeling of superiority, that I
somehow have more authentic purposes for wearing activewear,
and that the table of snobbish women are inferior to me. However,
with further scrutiny, I can see it has all the discernable signs of an
ad designed to lower my self-worth only to ofer a solution in the
form of a product that needs purchased. I am led to believe that
the leading lady is supposedly more relatable, with her contrasting
brown hair, simple ponytail hairstyle, and an attitude focused on
health as opposed to status. In reality, she’s still stunningly beautiful,
with an incredible figure and a disposable income that can aford
to work out in overpriced attire. I am led to project myself into the
image of this woman, as encouraged by the ad. When I picture
Fig. 1. An Oakley brand advertisement for women’s activewear (Oakley. Business myself wearing these clothes, my mind’s eye has involuntarily
Insider, 29 April 2013, https://www.businessinsider.in/Oakley-Is-Addressing-An- misrepresented my body to be a replica of hers. I’m not the girl
Epidemic-Within-The-Womens-Activewear-Marketarticleshow/21146951.cms).
being looked down on by the elite; I am looking down on them. And
in order to sustain this superior image of myself that’s been created
As I observe an online advertisement for women’s athletic by this brand’s advertisement, I must purchase their clothing.
wear, specifically, for the brand Oakley (see fig. 1), the first thing
I notice is a black and white picture along with some brightly A related advertisement for women’s sportswear by the
colored athletic clothing - the only colored items within the image. brand Adidas (see fig. 2) aims to produce similar feelings. The ad
The clothing pops against the grayscale monochrome backdrop. shows a woman bounding across the sky while wearing Adidas
The fluorescent colored clothing is being worn by a lady (also brand clothing and running shoes. Her face remains unseen, as she
in grayscale). She’s attractive with an athletic fit and is standing is strategically placed to appear in front of me, as though she has
with poise and confidence. With her arm outstretched behind her leaped past me during a race. With an exaggerated gait, her stance
and clutching her foot with a bent knee, my eyes are directed to mimics an airplane taking of and flying over a city skyline. Her long,
a group of women in the background. Above them is a statement extended legs guide my eyes to the statement “Greater Every Run”.
that reads “For Exercising Not Socializing.” The group of women
50 51have been met, and whose focus has changed to advancing self-
image and reputation. They exploit our ingrained desires of seeking
out growth and happiness by making us feel as though we cannot
be happy without the purchase of their products. Just as the Oakley
ad initially leads us to believe we are special, and the Adidas ad
makes us feel as though we are winners, they both are ultimately
telling us “you are neither of those things — without our products.”
With relentless advertisements manipulating the appearance of
status and success to be something dependent on consumerism,
our wants shift to a cycle of perceived needs, creating a continuous
barrier to our own fulfillment and genuine happiness.
Fig. 2. An Adidas brand advertisement for women’s activewear (Adidas. The
Hauterfly, 7 March 2017, https://thehauterfly.com/dedicated/adidas-ultraboostx-
shoe-launch/).
Again, a woman with a conventionally attractive and fit
physique is used as a model of what I should be striving for. The
advertisement incorporates the additional feature of a contrived
race, making the sense of a rivalry apparent. This element
of competition increases the desire for success and growth.
Additionally, the absence of a distinguishable face contributes
to a delusion of the identity of the runner in front of me. This Works Cited
faceless individual is everyone in my daily life that I compete with
for status and reputation, with the added possibility of it bearing
my own face. The not-so-subtle statement of “Greater Every Run” Adidas. The Hauterfly, 7 March 2017, https://thehauterfly.com/
dedicated/adidas-ultraboostxshoe-launch/. Advertisement.
communicates to me that in order to achieve perpetual greatness, I
must wear Adidas. McKevitt, Steve. “Everything Now.” Signs of Life in the USA:
Readings on Popular Culture for Writers, ninth edition, edited by
The featured products may serve athletic purposes, but Sonia Maasik and Jack Solomon, Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2018, pp.
their ads play into something much deeper. While physical health 123-129.
is an important necessity that those of us in developed countries
often take for granted, we do not require these overpriced luxury Oakley. Business Insider, 29 April 2013, https://www.businessinsider.
in/Oakley-Is-Addressing-An-Epidemic-Within-The-Womens-
sportswear items to assist in a providing a healthy, active lifestyle.
Activewear-Market/articleshow/21146951.cms.Advertisement.
These ads have targeted individuals whose most basic of needs
52 53SHORT STORY SELECTIONS
1 RICHARD
COLWELL
FIRST
FIRST AWARD
PLACE PAREIDOLIA
SHORT Emily Kean
STORIES
Someone would have to stumble upon it. Twenty miles away
from town, buried deep in the woods, the cabin seemed to have al-
ways been there, swallowed by the forest. There were no neighbors
for miles. But with seven bedrooms, the cabin felt like a mansion.
Only two bedrooms were in use. And for as long as she could re-
member, it was just her and her father.
“Elise, I’m running late,” her father said. “I’ve left a list on the
kitchen counter for you, don’t forget it. I’ll be back before you know
it.” She sighed but followed him to the door. She didn’t want him to
leave. “I know it’s a long time, but you’ll be fine. Don’t stay up too late
and lock the door behind me.” Like the cabin, her father had always
been there, filling the cabin with his boisterous presence.
Her father started working from home after Elise was done
with high school. She didn’t question it and enjoyed being able to
spend more time with him. Ever since Elise was four years old, her
father was the only person she had any relationship with. It started
after her mother’s sudden death. But it was as though she forgot her
mother ever existed. Growing up, she never talked about the kids at
school or seemed to make any friends. Her father seemed like the
only other person in the world. Her father took her to both doctors in
town, but they both said the same thing, “she’ll grow out of it.” But it
didn’t stop him from worrying.
57After Elise graduated high school, she was fine with not thick blanket and turned on reruns of her favorite murder mystery
working. It was her time to relax from the stress of standardized show. Her father always had true crime documentaries playing in
tests and greasy school lunches. It aligned perfectly with her father’s the background as he worked. He swore that it helped him focus
wishes because he didn’t think she needed a job. When she turned on work. White noise. It was nostalgic for Elise now, the monotone
twenty-two, she took a sudden interest in working. It took several narrator and the pure suspense throughout the episode.
hours of begging and pleading until her father gave in. She wasn’t
It was late when her father called her. “Is everything going
sure why her father had been so hesitant about letting her get a job.
well over there?” he asked. “Don’t fall asleep on the couch.” It was
She got a job as a cashier. It wasn’t much money, but it gave her a
strange only hearing her father’s voice. He sounded so far away. She
brand-new sense of worth.
hadn’t realized how much she missed him already. The phone call
It had been a few days since her father left on his business ended with Elise feeling more cut of than before.
trip. Elise took a couple days of work, but now work was the only
Several hours and episodes later, Elise lay on the couch in
thing she looked forward to. The cabin was eerily empty with just
the living room, drifting of to the detective’s speech on the televi-
her in it. Her first day back, she stood opposite of Jen, a sarcastic
sion. She had forgotten all about her father being gone and that she
old woman keen on smacking her gum like a teenager, waiting for
was alone in the cabin.
customers.. “How do you like being alone so far?” Jen asked.
The next morning, she woke up later than she wanted. Her
“I’m definitely not used it yet,.” Whenever she thought about
movements felt slower than usual. Remnants of a bizarre dream
the cabin, she missed her father more.
lingered. She couldn’t quite remember what it was about, but she
“Sounds like heaven to me. Maybe try a new hobby?” With felt like it was real. An uneasiness weighed on her. Even though she
a smack of her gum, Jen sparked an idea. Forty minutes after her slept the whole night, her body felt exhausted.
shift, Elise pulled into the drive of cabin. With Jen’s words floating
Her phone rang out once more. They wanted her to cover a
in her mind, she rushed into the house excited, a bulging grocery
shift. Elise contemplated the request a moment but gave in quickly
bag in tow.
and rushed to get ready with just a bit of fresh makeup and her hair
There was a long list of things her father wouldn’t let Elise brushed up into a ponytail. She left in the same clothes she had
do. The only one that always caught her attention was baking, worn the day before.
even though she didn’t understand why he was afraid of sugary
Exhaustion left heavy marks under her eyes as she fought
treats. She got to work immediately on boxed brownies. She had
to keep them open. The grocery store was still just as slow as usual.
seen them plenty of times while stocking the shelves at the store.
She yawned and tried to rub the grogginess from her eyes.
With the few ingredients needed to make the batter, making them
seemed simple enough. “You okay, miss? Staying up too late?” The rough man
she was ringing up spoke. He was buying an odd combination of
After spraying the kitchen with brownie batter from using
clementine oranges, cigars, and a 24 ounce jar of light mayo. Elise
a hand mixer for the first time and almost setting an oven glove on
wanted to ask him the same question, but she just nodded and
fire, an hour later a pan of warm brownies sat on the pile of “To Do”
finished his items.
notes her father left for her. She settled in the living room under a
58 59The day moved in slow motion. Once four o’clock rescued “This is the worst service I’ve ever gotten.” The lady hufed
her, she was finally able to leave. Driving the winding dirt road home and ripped the bags from Elise. Stomping like a toddler, she said "I’m
made time move backward. She wanted nothing more than to crawl going to give you a bad review.”
straight into bed once she arrived at the cabin.
“On Yelp? Facebook?” Jen spoke, “Lady, only the rich folk
She awoke a few hours later and pulled herself out of bed. out here got internet.” She smacked her gum, pushing the receipt
She just hadn’t slept well the previous night. She’d usually sleep in onto the many bags the lady was holding. “And they sure don’t shop
her bed. That was the first time in a while she’d fallen asleep on the here. What’s wrong, you want the owner? I married him.” Jen’s natu-
old couch. Her body moved on its own, grabbing a glass from the ral defense was soothing.
cupboard and filling it at the sink. Just as she brought the glass to
Elise wished she could stay in the store all day with Jen or
her mouth, something caught her eye. She could’ve sworn she only
that her father would come home early. She didn’t want to go back
ate three of the brownies. Unease filled her when she found only one
to the cabin. Maybe it was just the loneliness fully sinking in. Slowly
left in the pan, and an unsettling mug half full of cofee, she some-
she made her way back home. Rain made the drive home even more
how missed before, sitting next to it.
time-consuming. It turned the dirt into thick quicksand at the edges.
Over the next few days, Elise grew increasingly nervous. It Rain pelted even harder when she pulled up to the cabin. She was
was worse at night. The silence sat heavy in the cabin. Memories soaked just from the walk to the door. She left her wet shoes on the
of her father lingered in each room, haunting her. The cabin be- porch, not wanting to clean up any more water that would drip from
came hard to stay in; every sound she made seemed like it echoed her.
throughout the empty walls.
When she opened the door, something was diferent. Usu-
Elise’s imagination took over. She took more shifts at the ally, on rainy days if no one was home, the cabin became chilly, and
grocery store after the brownie incident. Trying to take her mind of the air inside felt damp. But there was dry warmth spilling out into
the thoughts that swarmed, she organized her new work schedule the cold night. She expected her father waiting to surprise her. She
onto the monthly calendar that hung of the refrigerator. Putting the warily moved into the living room, towards the source of the heat. In
smallest details on it was therapeutic to her. She spent more time the fireplace was the remnants of a pyramid of wood. Small flames
at the store to avoid going home. Each time she arrived back at the still waltzed around it, lighting up the room. Elise stood frozen in
store, she felt more tired than before. place at the sight of this for a long moment. Could a fire last a whole
shift? She called out to anyone, but no answer came. A sinking feel-
“How’re you doing, Hun?” Jen spoke, looking through
ing grew in her stomach. She couldn’t think straight. Her heart raced
the customer.
faster when she looked into the hallway. The previous thoughts she
“Alright, a bit tired.” She focused on bagging the customer’s tried suppressing rushed back. Her suspicions were real. Someone
groceries; the middle-aged woman was fuming at the lack of atten- else was in the cabin with her.
tion. She was obviously not from this small town, what business she
Elise wanted to call her father, but she knew he was busy.
had passing through here was beyond Elise. Jen finally turned to the
If he answered, he would rush back home. He couldn’t come home
lady and cashed her out without a word.
early from his trip so there would be no sense in worrying him un-
less there was real proof of something wrong.
60 61She called the nonemergency crime reporting number. Someone “He’s in Japan.” Elise said, deadpanning at the oficers.
would be sent to investigate her report. In the meantime, Elise They were not taking her seriously at all. “Is there anything you
dreamt up all kinds of scenarios worthy of a crime-solving series. can do? I don’t know how this works, do you go through my cabin
The cabin was quite a big space for two people, and it had been or something?”
some time since she ventured into any of the unoccupied rooms.
“Yeah, I suppose we could,” Oficer Robinson said.
There was never any reason to before. She was sure that her father
kept those rooms locked. The two men hurriedly spent the next ten minutes looking
through the entire cabin; Elise was surprised that they did it that fast.
She had always been content with spending time in her
She could hear them muttering to each other the entire time, but it
room or with her father in his ofice. Everything she used or cared for
wasn’t clear as she decided to stay in the living room. After a few min-
was on her side of the cabin. She couldn’t remember the last time
utes, they stood in front of her again, more annoyed than before.
she stepped foot into her father’s bedroom. He rarely spent any time
there. Elise usually found him several times a week asleep in the “Did you find anything?” She wasn’t sure if she was hoping
large armchair in the living room with a newspaper crumpled under they did or not.
his arms and the television still on.
“No.” Oficer Robinson said, “There is no sign of an intrud-
Two hours later, a sharp knock sounded from the door. Two of- er. There were a few rooms that were locked though. Do you have
ficers stood on the porch, both wearing the same annoyed expression. the keys?”
“We got a report of a possible squatter?” His badge read “My father has a set with him, and there is a set somewhere
"Robinson." Elise nodded, feeling a bit insecure in her thin pajamas in here I think but I have no clue where they are. Are you sure you
as the oficers stared at her. looked long enough? There’s —“They didn’t even let her finish
speaking before turning to the door and opening it.
“I’m not entirely sure, but several things seem out of place.
And the other day I came home from work and a burned-down “If you call again with a report, make sure it isn’t just your
fire was going, and there were wet footprints tracked throughout house settling before you do,” the other oficer said after oficer Rob-
the house.” inson walked out of the cabin, he turned to follow him out. Then he
shut the door behind him. Elise was left stunned, staring at the door,
“And your father, is he home?” Oficer Robinson spoke.
watching the oficers pull out of the driveway through the window.
“No, it’s just me. He’s on a business trip.”
After the fire incident, she spent all her earnings on the
“Is there any chance he could’ve forgotten something and cheapest version of a security camera she could find. She installed
came home when you were gone?” the camera in the living room facing the kitchen, ensuring the two
spots of showing evidence of any intruder. She set the camera to
“No, definitely not. He’s —”
record during her shift at the store.
“Why not? It’s entirely normal.” The other oficer inter-
She didn’t think this invader would come out again until
rupted Elise. He was younger and somehow looked crankier than
she was gone, but the next morning proved her wrong. A dull ache
Oficer Robinson.
in her head and a stinging throat woke her up early. Bleary-eyed
and slightly nauseous, she went to the kitchen to find something to
62 63smother the pain, thinking water and aspirin would help. A quart of Elise called of work the next couple days, figuring they
her father’s favorite ice cream sat on the counter completely empty, probably wouldn’t even need her help. She didn’t know how to pro-
the bowl next to it holding a mint chocolate chip puddle. After the cess what had happened. The broken window sat covered with the
fear that she wasn’t alone in the cabin mixed with hot anger that this old tarp. She didn’t want to look at it or think about it. A bad taste
stranger was making her a fool, her fear washed away. crept up her tongue every time she did. Explaining what happened
to her father seemed impossible. There was no logical explanation
Each day Elise came home from work and spent hours
for the broken window. The camera was unusable now. Cracks cov-
watching recordings of an empty house. She began to give up. Every
ered the lens, and the battery cover wouldn’t latch shut. Still, after
time she tried to catch the intruder on camera when she was gone,
her brief meltdown, she couldn’t shift her thoughts from the intruder.
it didn’t come out. She would see the things it left behind. The past
She felt violated that a stranger could coax a reaction like that from
week she found a wet umbrella sitting on the porch after a rain-
her. The anxiety made a home in Elise, continually nipping at her
storm. The food in her refrigerator seemed to disappear faster. There
brain. She felt like someone was watching her.
was also a random set of new shoes next to her work ones.
She figured that the person was coming out of hiding when
She started to grow increasingly frustrated that the person
she was asleep. She would just have to sleep a little bit less if she
living there was coming out still, and she couldn’t catch them yet.
were to find it. This was the solution to all her problems.
Elise had wasted all that time and money spent trying to capture
a glimpse, just for them to again evade her advances and make She lay in her bed waiting. She didn’t hear anything in the
her look foolish. Elise was never one to like games. They made her extra hours she stayed awake, so she added more. Staying up later
aggressive. This intruder was taunting her. If she did one thing, it did and later each night, it was getting harder to stay awake. She went
the opposite. Anger started slowly, her scanning the previous day’s back to work to keep her job. It didn’t ofer solace like it used to.
footage once more and finding nothing, again. It was like a small There was no distraction from her thoughts that switched from the
flame in her core, but it spread fast—like a forest fire deep in the dry intruder to just how tired she was getting. The fourth day Elise was
summer heat. The feeling was familiar but new at the same time. back at the store was the hardest. She had been staying up late for
Elise’s skin burned and itched. She set the camera down shakily almost two weeks now. It felt like she got no sleep at all. But Elise
on the counter. The corners of her vision turned cloudy, and she no was determined, though she hadn’t found anything yet. The few
longer had control of her breathing. times there were noises, it was nothing but the cabin settling or the
wind. Several more times she had seen more dishes on the counter
“You’re making me look stupid.” She whispered, her
and food she couldn’t remember eating. She’d just have to go with-
voice shaking, “But I know you’re in here. I know it. I can feel you.
out any sleep to catch them.
You’re crazy if you think I don’t know you’re here.” A laugh tore from
her throat, and she looked down at the camera. “I don’t need a cam- “Elise.” She snapped her head up at the sound of her name.
era to catch you! I’ll do it myself!” Jen was standing in front of her, hands on her broad hips. “I was
calling your name a million times!”
One second the camera sat on the counter. The next, it was
on the lawn outside following a loud crash. Elise froze. She looked “Oh. Sorry, Jen. I’m just a bit tired,” Elise mumbled, just barely
up at the source of the noise. Glass fell, joining the shattered rem- loud enough for Jen. Talking took too much energy.
nants of what once was a window.
64 65You can also read
